Page 5 of Second Sin

She's fucking married.

And I'm an asshole still doing penance for the last time I let want win.

Now I’ve got to sit with her. Every damn week. For hours. While she picks at my head, tries to crack me open, asks questions I’ve spent years refusing to answer.

A fucking counselor.

What does Coach care if I’m dragging around a few ghosts? I show up. I hit. I win. Whatever’s rotting underneath—I keep it buried.

I rub a hand over my jaw as I step off the elevator and head for the locker room, still feeling the heat of her too close. The weight of everything this season’s already turning into.

I tell myself it’s just the season pressure. Just another game week. But it’s not. I know it’s not.

Kane’s coming down the hallway, gear bag slung over his shoulder, fresh from media.

“Reporters hounding you again?” I ask, mostly out of habit.

He smirks. “Always. But apparently being happy and not a total asshole makes for boring headlines.”

I grunt. “You should try being miserable and emotionally unavailable.”

Kane laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “How’s that working out?”

“Exactly how it sounds.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “You know, not everyone ends up broken, Wilde.”

“Good for them.”

He doesn’t push. Just keeps walking.

And I don’t say what’s clawing up my throat—that I’m happy for him.

I see the way he looks when he talks about his kids. Like it changed him. Like it mattered. Good for him. But that’s not my story.

That fairy tale bullshit? It’s not in the cards for me. Never was.

Never will be.

Hockey is my life. The ice, the routine, the violence. The odd fling here and there, just enough to remind myself I’m still human.

But love?A sound of disgust scrapes low in my throat, bitter and involuntary. It tastes like copper and regret.

That part of me—the one that thought it was possible—is long dead and buried.

Fingers curl into fists, and pain flares sharp and immediate. The soreness from drills lingers, one knuckle split under the tape—small reminder of how far I’m willing to push until something breaks.

I should be heading to post-practice recovery. Ice, stretches, protein. Instead, I’m walking the halls like I’m trying to burnoff something I can’t name. Not nerves. Not rage. Just this low, constant pressure under my skin that won’t go away.

I reach the locker room again. The usual noise hits like a wave—Ryder chirping Blake, someone blasting post-practice playlists.

“Yo, did you catch the new counselor?” one of the rookies—Tyler Slade, of course—calls out, already in street clothes, sprawled on the bench like he owns the place, stretching his arms behind his head. “Absolute ten. I’m about to fake a mental crisis just to get some extra one-on-one time.”

He grins like he’s already undressing her with his eyes. My jaw tightens.

“Keep your dick in your pants, Slade,” I say, voice flat but sharp enough to draw a glance.

Blake looks over, just once, like he’s clocking me. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. Just watches me with that quiet stillness that says he knows exactly how close I am to snapping.

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